The tournament starts in mid-December, right when you’re panic-buying presents. You’ll be wrapping a jumper for Aunt Carol while muttering “double top” under your breath. It clings to the calendar like that last bauble on the tree that just won’t fall off.
Then, miraculously, it spills over into January. You’re back at work, still half-asleep from the turkey, but there’s a world championship final on January 1st or 2nd. It’s the only New Year’s resolution you’ll actually keep: watching a man in a waistcoat hit a bullseye.
The Boxing Day Bonus
You’ve just eaten your third mince pie, and your trousers feel like a sausage casing. What do you do? You slump onto the sofa and flip the telly on. Boom. Darts. It’s the unofficial cure for the Christmas Day food coma.
Whole families gather around the screen, each person claiming they could “easily hit that” after a few glasses of Bailey’s. The wife judges the outfits; the dog judges the missed throws. It’s a beautiful, shared delusion.
